


The Sorcerer Arthur and his Knight of Questionable Moral Stature

by AVinaccia



Series: Avalon, Ys, and Everything in Between [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: A long journey fraught with peril, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bad Touch Trio | Bad Friend Trio, Dragons, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, General Shenanigans, Knights - Freeform, M/M, also Arthur's nerves are also fraught, and wizards, oh my, someone help him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27344179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AVinaccia/pseuds/AVinaccia
Summary: In which a dragon is lost, a ‘princess’ unmasked, and a journey embarked  in what is sure to be the tale of the lifetime - if Arthur doesn’t murder his travelling companion first.Otherwise known as a tale in which Francis gets in way over his head and Arthur has zero people skills but somehow things don’t spontaneously combust.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Series: Avalon, Ys, and Everything in Between [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1996780
Comments: 8
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

One wouldn’t normally describe the dingy traveller’s inn as beautiful or breathtaking, but with the thick fog of pipe smoke clogging the air and the heady influence of liquor dulling his senses and lending a shimmering aura to the various tallow candles scattered about the room, Francis was certain he had never seen anything quite so gorgeous in his 21 years. 

Slouched languidly in his seat and nursing his umpteenth mug of sub-par ale, Francis was only half-listening to Gilbert regale the other patrons with his raucous and somewhat embellished story about ones of their many escapades - this one involving a certain Spaniard and a poorly timed stampede of bulls during their time on campaign in the low countries. Antonio was only protesting half-heartedly as Gilbert ran through the story in great detail, placing the majority of the blame on the former while simultaneously making himself out to be the hero of the evening. It was a story that Francis had heard many a time in many a tavern such as this, one that he had also told and contributed to, so he felt no qualms about letting his friend take the reins on this iteration. 

“So we’ve just been chased out of our refuge brothel by angry prostitutes, and we’re standing in this tiny alleyway and Tonio is attempting to climb over a wooden wall like some sort of madman while Francis and I are just watching him make a fool of himself.” A pause as Gilbert takes another swig, “And just as he’s about to reach the top his foot somehow finds the latch of this wall, which was actually a gate all along and then BOOM! A dozen bulls are right in front of us again because the street we were on before connected to this one through a gate!” 

Francis pulled Antonio’s mug out of harm’s way as the Prussian’s arm completed a destructive sweep of the table in an effort to describe the explosion of angry beasts that had thundered their way into the narrow street. Antonio scoffed in mock exasperation in Gilbert’s direction while turning to Francis for his drink. The teasing expression in Antonio’s face morphed into a pout as others considered the secondary beverage for a second, then took a generous sip before handing it back. 

“At least I was trying to get us out of there.” He offered up, but not before flipping Francis a none-too-pleasant gesture. 

Gilbert snorted, “Yeah, get us out of harm’s way by unlocking the gates of Hell instead. You were still wearing that stupid red cape too, no wonder they charged at you.” 

“Bulls don’t even like red Gilbert, they’re colourblind.” 

“Then they’re lucky they didn’t have to see that ugly stupid half blanket thing.” 

“But...they’re not blind, they just can’t see colour.” 

Francis zoned out of the sudden tangent and re-fixated his gaze on the tendrils of smoke curling around the ceiling. His empty mug rested on his bent knee, now pulled up on the bench beside him and he relaxed further into the corner and placed his free hand behind his head. Yes, he was drunk in every sense of the word; drunk off shit alcohol, drunk off company, drunk off life in general. Sure, sobriety might have been only a distant memory, but when had that ever stopped him before? 

The trio had installed themselves at the tavern hours ago in celebration of having finally achieved their knighthoods, a long and arduous undertaking that had taken the better part of a decade, and was therefore eligible for the most common of celebrations. In this case, that meant getting completely plastered at the nearest establishment that offered any sort of alcohol. 

It hadn’t been an easy task, and Francis believed the trio more than deserving of a night off before having to return to the (at most times) gruelling reality that was really just a glorified castle guard at the moment. Dreams of grandeur still swirled about his head, buoyed by stories of heroic knights out on crusade, saving fair maidens and vanquishing foes with all the chivalry expected of a warrior of the realm. However sweet daydreams were little consolation when one was forced to spend hours keeping watch in the blistering mid-summer sun, or when the horses decided that the most frigid night of the year was the perfect time to go on a midnight jaunt through the woods, leaving three very tired and very cold squires to go scrambling through the snow after them.

That had not been very pleasurable, and Francis suppressed a shiver just thinking about it. 

But with the memory of the light touch of the accolade and his master Clovis’ proud grasp still fresh on his shoulders, perhaps Francis could overlook the 13 years of non-stop training and hardship just for a little while, enjoy the evening a bit. 

A chorus of bawdy laughs rose from the table as Gilbert, the argument on the seeing capabilities of bulls on hold for now, concluded his rousing tale, with many people slapping Antonio on the back and congratulating him on being made the leader of the bulls during his final daring ride through the streets. The man in question rolled his eyes and buried any expression of abashedness or embarrassment in downing the rest of his own mug. Francis checked back into the conversation, not wanting to become more put-out by his nostalgic thoughts, and watched as Gilbert hefted his drink into the air with perhaps a bit more force than was necessary as amber liquid showered the table’s occupants. Most were too far gone to care, Francis’ nose wrinkled slightly as he felt a wetness in his hair. 

“To Antonio, lord of the bulls!” The Prussian crowed, barely even waiting until the words had left his mouth before proceeding to drink himself silly. Antonio, already giddy of his exploits being the centre of attention, smacked his friend repeatedly with both hands. The other recruits, mostly younger squires, were quick to raise their flagons in a roaring ‘hear hear’.

“Sir Antonio, I am a sir, a sir!” He lamented, gesticulating wildly. Gilbert, in all of his grace, suppressed a belch and looked at his friend with bleary-eyed amusement. 

“Isn’t a Lord higher than a Sir though?” One of the other recruits interjected, a young man named Mathias who hailed from the north. 

Antonio paused to consider this for a moment before gasping and covering his face with his hands, “I demoted myself!” 

Raucous laughs, those that had never fully died down in the first place, renewed themselves as Antonio lamented his plight and sunk further into the table.

“You didn’t even earn it in the first place! I don’t remember the King giving you any fancy titles.” Gilbert interjected once again, now lying with nearly his entire upper half on the table, his silver hair dangerously close to the candle. 

Antonio rose slightly, completely befuddled. “Then who told me I was a knight of the realm? He seemed legit.” 

“Not the King, doesn’t count.” 

“But it’s the King who recognizes us.”

Now it was Mathias’ turn to interject, “But did he make you a lord though? King has to be present for that.” He twirled one finger around in complex patterns, apparently to accentuate his point with squinted eyes that also weren’t quite focused. “I think.” 

Antonio groaned, his brain unable to grasp the thread of conversation that had passed him by a couple minutes ago, and nearly face-planted into his -luckily now empty- pint. Francis looked past the table of the bar itself, making eye contact with the voluptuous barmaid, Isabelle, Isabeau? He couldn’t quite remember in this state, and waved her over. 

She was new enough to this part of the city to be an attraction to the tavern’s patrons, but not new enough that she didn’t know about the habits of the regulars, a fact that became glaringly apparent as she quickly made her way to the table with a tray brimming with nearly a dozen overflowing mugs for the raucous patrons. 

“You’re a saint my darling, do you know that?” Francis crooned, gingerly picking up one of the mugs with two hands, not entirely trusting his hand-eye coordination not to unbalance the entire tray. 

Gilbert however, was not as vigilant, or as graceful, and nearly upended the lot in his haste to reach over Antonio’s prone form and grab one for himself. Isabeaubelle, bless her heart, had been trained by a lifetime of waiting tables though, and quickly balanced herself with a haste ‘Careful there!’. Antonio, still facedown on the table, was nothing more than a hindrance, blissfully unaware of the soggy future he had narrowly missed.

“Gilbert pays this round!” Mathias crowed, teetering dangerously far back on his stool. 

“Who says?”

“House rules, one who spills is the one who pays.”

“You should get your eyes checked, I didn’t spill a drop.” As if to illustrate his point, he tipped his mug back to take a drink - and naturally slopped about a fourth of it down his chest instead. 

“Fuck!”

“House rules house rules!”

Antonio jerked up, “Yeah house rules!”

“You don’t even know what you’re talkin’ about do ya?” Gilbert interjected, hastily attempting to brush beer of his thoroughly soaked doublet with his free hand. The Spaniard only tipped his head back and smiled with hooded eyes. “That’s what I thought.”

Mathias, who had wasted no time on his beverage and had already swiped another from a disgruntled tablemate, let out a bark of laughter which startled a few of their other companions who were also following Antonio into the realm of unconsciousness, “Some lord you are, can’t even hold your liquor!” He slurred. 

Dissuaded from his soiled clothing by the drink in front of him, Gilbert snorted, finished his sip, and slammed it onto the table, stopping the barmaid in her tracks as she made to leave. 

“Lucienne, d’ya think the King would come down to make Toni here a lord?”

Oh, Lucienne - Francis was way off with that one. 

Lucienne scoffed bemusedly and tucked the now empty tray beside her, “What’s he ever done to earn himself a lordship?”

Gilbert was back in his element, “You missed it earlier, it’s a great story, awesome, Toni can tell- Antonio, wake the hell up!” Reaching diagonally across the table to reach, he punctuated his last command with a slap that looked none too gentle from anyone’s perspective. Francis pursued his lips in sympathy as his friend jerked awake, completely bleary eyed but still, somehow, in somewhat command of his functions. 

“I am the Lord of the Bulls, even they worship me as their supreme leader.” 

“Lord of bullshit, more likely, I have half a mind to cut you off.” Lucienne made a playful grab for the hand of one of the men whose name frankly completely alluded Francis at the moment. Conversation at the table, half of it somewhat diverted since the original adventure tale had died down, rose in a crescendo of protests, one young squire even going so far as to stash his gobelet under his tunic. 

“Calm yourselves.” She laughed, “I wouldn’t be so cruel as to throw some distinguished patrons out early, especially some of our best customers.” 

Francis had had enough of bystanding, and decided to throw in his two cents. He raised his drink to her, “And deprive you of our presence? Whatever would you do without us Madame?”

“Thanks for participating.” Gilbert snorted, “Really enjoyed having your comments.” He said, at the same time Lucienne spoke. 

“Have a bit more peace and quiet I reckon.”

Francis laughed at this and raised his glass in mock salute. Lucienne continued. “The day I see one of you lot with some fancy robes and a crown on your head is the day I meet God himself and he asks me to dinner. Keep dreaming boys.” She shot to the volley of groaning men, “Now if you excuse me, as much as I enjoy your lovely company.” She winked at Francis, “Wouldn’t want to keep the other patrons waiting.” 

Protests arose anew, though none louder than Gilbert. “You don’t want to hear about the time I single handedly chased an army across a frozen lake?”

Lucienne rolled her eyes and swatted him on the head with her tray, prompting an indignant - ow what the hell - “And I’m the King. Pay your tab tonight.” With that she turned on her heel and promptly left. 

“Okay!” Antonio waved, his earlier exhaustion forgotten. “I like Lucienne, she’s fun.” He admitted, grinning from ear to ear as he turned back to the table.

“Yeah, real fun.” Gilbert grimaced, rubbing his crown. 

A few of the men at the table laughed at his expense, but quickly returned to their own conversations. Thoroughly put out by his lack of audience, Gilbert busied himself with the contents of his mug.

Mathias piped up. “I think you could do it. Become a lord.” He clarified at Antonio’s furrowed look. “Just gotta believe.” 

The Spaniard nodded thoughtfully, playing with the edge of his lip as he stared down at nothing. A cloud of smoke fluttered across the table as one of their companions lit his pipe. 

“I don’t think Gilbert could though.” Mathias continued.

This was enough to get the Prussian going. “What the fuck does that mean? I would be an awesome Lord.”

“Yeah but you’d have to be good at managing people...and have empathy.”

“Who needs management when you are awesome? The people will follow me because they want to...because I’m awesome.” His lips quirked up. 

Francis was starting to get a headache at how fast he was having to turn his head to stare at each man in turn. Gilbert was getting drunker by the second, his vocabulary slowing down with him, Francis’ amusement, however, was growing exponentially. 

Mathias looked puzzled, but was stubborn enough that it came off as disbelief, “They can’t follow you, they have to do what the King says.”

“Fine then I’ll just be the King, no one can tell the King what to do.”

“How the hell would you become King?”

“Maybe my grandfather was a prince.”

“I thought your grandfather built cabinets?” Antonio interjected, halting his pattern of gaping like a fish now that he was able to get a word in. 

“That was Mathias’ grandfather, mine built wagons.” The last part was muttered rather quietly. 

The smug reply was swift, “Not a prince.” 

“Maybe some uncle then, you don’t know my family.”

“And you don’t know anything about being King.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, you’ve never met the King, you don’t know what he does.” Gilbert, who had been leaning closer to the table with every point, now had his almost touching it. From his position, Francis decided that the whole image was quite terrifying, especially with his friend’s eyes angled so far upwards the pupils were barely visible. 

Mathias leaned down to match him, “Know enough about royalty to know that you would suck.”

Francis snorted. “If you ran the country I would stage a coup.” 

Gilbert pitched himself backwards with a sharp exhale. “You guys are the worst.” He scowled, though the effect was quite marred by the fact that his head was inclined too far back on his shoulders - an unfortunate result of too much alcohol and moving too quickly. 

“Besides.” Francis took advantage of the break, though he did spot Mathias opening his mouth; whether that was to talk or to drink more, he wasn’t going to take the chance. “If anyone was going to be a lord, it would be me of course.” Antonio squinted at him so he elaborated. “After all.” He began cheekily, “I thought we had already established that I am the most.” He halted for a second, searching for a word that would properly convey the nobility he strongly believed he was entitled to, “Meritorious of our bunch.” 

Perplexed faces were staring, his bubble of confidence deflated. It would seem his lexicon would not find him any admirers here. “What the hell is a mayourtororus.” Mathias sounded out, butchering each syllable worse than the last. Francis blinked at the ceiling and swung his head around to stare blearily at the other. 

“Seriously?” Francis quipped, catching Antonio out of the corner of his eye trying to repeat the word and failing spectacularly. 

“Means he’s the mayor.” Gilbert stated confidently, lounging back in his seat, presumably to bask in the praise of his companions for knowing such a word. 

Antonio made a faint ah- of approval, “Mayor tororus, torus, toro-” Francis saw something work its way past the alcohol in his friends system, and the exact moment when a thought clicked into place and Antonio’s face brightened, sitting bolt upright in his seat. “Francis! You’re the Mayor of the Bulls?” 

“This is worse than demotion Antonio, you’ve been completely us...upsur..up...kicked out!”

Francis was at a loss for words. 

“You know what, I changed my mind, I’m going to be King of the Bulls now.” Gilbert declared, rapping his chest twice with his fist and sitting up a little straighter. 

“Can I still be a lord though?”

“Sure thing, I’ll make you my commander-in-chief!”

Francis nearly choked on his drink in his haste to give a rebuke, “Did you not listen to your own story? You almost died.” 

Gilbert waved him off, “Technicalities. I can conquer any beast, anytime, anywhere, I’ll show them! In fact-” 

As gracefully as one who had probably ingested a cask’s worth of ale in the past few hours could muster, the Prussian pushed himself off his stool, only teetering slightly to the left but quickly righting himself. “There isn’t a beast for miles around that I wouldn’t be able to defeat!” His right leg went up once, twice, three times before he was able to get it firmly planted on his seat. 

“Check it out!” He declared, arms spread wide.The attention of not only their table, but the entire bar was now fixated on him, and Gilbert reveled in it. 

“Any bull tries to go against me is going to get nothing but this!” He unsheathed his longsword with a flourish, nearly missing Antonio’s eye in the process. It took Antonio a few more seconds to realize it though. “I’d like to see any defiance in my ranks!”

A few more jerky movements that were supposed to look sharp and impressive accompanied the declaration, and a few patrons hollered their encouragement. The absolute absurdity of it all and the copious amount of alcohol in his system sent Francis into a fit of guffaws. Gilbert turned on him. 

“You!” He pointed with the tip of his sword, his free hand resting jauntily at his hip, “Traitor, let’s see what you’re made of.”

Now Francis, despite being sufficiently drunk, still had some sense of wits about him, enough to know that challenging the other to a duel would not only be quite a stupid idea, but he also knew that the tavern owner didn’t take too kindly to fights that could potentially destroy his property (The Frenchman also knew that Gilbert, who was also more than sufficiently drunk, wouldn’t pull his punches, and he didn’t fancy waking up sporting a new collection of welts and bruises). 

So he did the most rational thing he could think of and put his hands up in surrender. “Don’t want to anger the King.”

“Proof! No man or beast can stand up to me!” Gilbert crowed, sword held aloft in triumph.

The shouting that followed was enough to partially deafen any man. Francis spotted some men unsheathing their own swords, no doubt to stake their own claims. He leaned back in his seat as the cacophony deepened, so much so that they hardly heard the scoff of derision from directly behind their table. “I doubt that.” 

Gilbert, always the one with the best hearing, whipped around to find the source of the comment, Francis leaned to look over his friend’s shoulder and beheld an old man. Stooped with the weight of time, the man wore a dingy, tattered cloak with the hood pulled snuggly over his crown. The only part of him visible being a pale sliver of his face and gaunt hands showcasing a spider web of purple veins and papery skin, nursing a mystery pint and swirling it contemplatively. From the slight glimpse of his profile that he could see, squinting through the smoke and sputtering candlelight, Francis could make out a slightly hooked nose, and lank hair that escaped the confines of the man’s hood. Despite the significant decrease in his rational thinking skills, Francis found himself musing on if the shadowy location was a deliberate decision. 

“You talking to us old man?” 

The man gave a wane smile but did not remove his hood. 

Gilbert gave up his strange position and stalked over. Leaning on the chair directly in front of the man, he curled his lip slightly and mustered up his best intimidating (if only slightly clouded) glare. Francis thought it was probably hard, seeing as the old man’s eyes were almost completely covered. Already riled up, the other patrons in the bar paid them no heed, even Mathias had sprung to his feet and gone off somewhere. 

Scowling faltering at the lack of response, Gilbert tried again, “Do you wanna fight?” 

Another few beats passed, then a low rattling wheeze escaped the stooped figure; it took Francis a few seconds to realize it was a laugh. The sound itself was enough to make someone recoil. Gilbert also classified as someone. He took a hesitant step backwards and glanced at Francis. “What? 

The old man stretched slightly, arthritic joints popping in what looked like a painful manner, though the expression on his face didn’t change. 

“Have you ever heard about the beast of Wruenele?” He said eventually, right at the moment where the trio was considering abandoning all hope of conversation altogether. 

Slightly more at ease from the reply, Gilbert laughed, “Who doesn’t?” 

He spoke the truth. While the city lay far from the untamed lands of the north and inner plains, there wasn’t a soul alive in it that didn’t know the tale of the magnificent beast of Wruenele mountain. For centuries, it had been rumoured that a dragon, more terrible than any beast encountered before by men, lived deep within the mountain, guarding its castle and treasure inside. Whatever civilization had built the castle and amassed such a wealth was long lost to time, but the dragon remained. 

Cloaked in eternal cloud and shadow, the top of the mountain offered no answers for the curious adventurer. Indeed, no one could confirm exactly what lay hidden above; those many brave souls who had tried and failed to slay the monster and make-off with its hoard never returned from the dusky peak. Livestock would frequently go missing from neighbouring fields, and even unfortunate men had disappeared from their fields without a trace. There could be no mistake, something was up there, and it was extremely dangerous. 

Occasionally, bright swathes of fire would light up the clouds, and some would swear they once heard the roars of a mighty creature carrying across the plain on a dark and still night. It was only in recent years that legend began to speak of a powerful sorcerer, one whose magic could quell even the might of the dragon and bend it to his will. How else could the emerald lights continue to puncture the clouds amongst hails of orange and red? What else could explain the strange and unnatural weather of late? A whispering amongst the trees, crops who would prosper one day and falter the next. Such irregularities could only be explained by the presence of one who wielded magic. 

The Duke had tried and failed to conquer the mountain and eradicate the evil spreading there, but the attempts had been fruitless and bore nothing but the missing bodies of the men who ventured beyond the clouds. The glory and renown that would follow any soldier who succeeded where his compatriots could not would be astounding, truly a tale that would cement one’s name in history. 

It was this last thought that snagged itself on the minds of the trio, albeit with less backstory that had slipped unseen through the drunken haze. In his chest, Francis felt the pangs of what could be, though the fear that accompanied them was equally as strong. 

In Gilbert however, either audacity or ale or a combination of them both had cemented themselves much more strongly, and solely governed his words as he next spoke, “Are you saying we couldn’t do it?”

“You couldn’t do it.” 

Gilbert looked affronted and even Francis was taken aback at the direct attack on their skills, indestructible monsters be damned. 

“How can you-” Antonio had passed out on his shoulder, Francis shook him awake and pushed the bleary eyed Spaniard away (and onto the floor, seeing as stools aren’t particularly known for their balance). “How can you say that?” He demanded, pushing himself to his feet and blatantly ignoring the beast’s perfect kill count or the trio’s relative lack of experience in anything that didn’t involve hitting each other and other recruits with a pointy stick. 

Silence was his only reply. Goaded on by the presence of another, Gilbert leaned further forward on the chair, which protested under the strange weight. Lucky for both Gilbert and the tavern keeper that the furniture was made of sturdier stuff. 

“Dragon hasn’t fought us before. I bet we could beat it.” He looked to Francis who nodded in semi-confusion and agreement. 

“Then fight it.” The old man deadpanned.

It was just now occurring to Francis that that might not be the best idea. Luckily Gilbert and his impeccable reasoning beat him to it. 

“Fine, we will.” 

The man didn’t respond, only leaned back in his seat with a self-satisfied air. 

“You hear that boys?” Gilbert exclaimed, grabbing for his abandoned sword on the table, “The three of us here.” He gestured to the motley crew, “Are going to go Wrunele, find the dragon, and hack its mangy head from it’s miserable shoulders!” 

It took a few moments for the patrons to get over their surprise, drunk as they were, but in quick time the bar broke into cheers as an excited chatter spread throughout the establishment, completely ignoring Gilbert’s ghastly pronunciation. Had anyone in the tavern been remotely sober, perhaps someone would have tried to dissuade the trio from their certain-to-be-fatal quest, but as it was even old Guiscard, who normally tried to keep his head in case of such situations, had been goaded into a particularly heavy drinking competition and had yet to rise from his fall to the floor almost a quarter of an hour prior. 

Thus no dissent could be heard. 

Gilbert practically preened under the attention and slung an arm over Francis’ shoulder, pulling him closer as he momentarily fumbled to get his sword back in its sheath. For what it was worth, Francis felt both elated and quite terrified, especially as he was still attempting to process the events of the past three minutes. 

“What are we fighting?” Antonio questioned, having somehow, in the last minute, both managed to push himself into a sitting position and acquire another drink to happily sip on throughout the above conversation. 

Gilbert guffawed and made to help him up while Francis nearly had the wind knocked out of him by a rather enthusiastic pat on the back from Mathias, who by all rights shouldn’t have been this strong in this state. 

“Off to fight dragons already? Save some of the treasure for me will ya?” 

Francis barely had time to nod his head before he was being jostled by more eager patrons. The absurdity of the situation set in and he laughed in spite of it all. In fact, he kept on laughing and drinking and chatting and drinking as flagons were pressed into his hands and likely would have gone on doing so until their departure had not a brusque cough interrupted his premature revelries. 

“A word.”

The curt voice from behind made Francis jump in shock and whip around, though it took a few seconds to orientate himself afterwards. The beggar stood before him. 

He’s my height. He noted with frank disdain, attempting to peer under the dark hood. 

The man beat him to it; his head lifted in a jerk and Francis startled, the cold blue eyes staring at him were not those of an old beggar, pocketed and sunken with age, but of a young man whose soul had seen things beyond his years. “Take this.” The man said, his voice devoid of its early rasp. Francis tried to count his empty mugs and came up short. “Perhaps it will come in useful before the end.”

A small leather pouch was pressed into his palm. It was cool to the touch and strangely heavy. 

“I-” He started, looking up to ask the stranger something, even if his brain didn’t quite know what he wanted to ask yet. 

He blinked. The man had disappeared. 

Behind him, the men sloppily toasted to the trio’s health.

********************************  
It was with much difficulty that the trio were able to navigate their way out of the tavern, though part of the blame lay with the other patrons, who all clambered to wish the prospective heroes well before returning to their pints to toast the mighty dragonslayers. 

Or at least that’s what Francis wanted to believe. In truth, while the tavern goers had gone back inside, the conversations focused more on what a shame it was for three young knights to meet such a tragic end, though the optimistic buzz of drink kept most from realizing the exact gravity of the situation. (Old Guiscard was the exception to the rule, having just awoken from his premature slumber to be quickly brought up to speed on the trio’s quest and was now sitting rather morosely in a corner lamenting the tragedy to come). Already halfway across the square, which was an impressive feat in and ofitself seeing as Antonio kept staggering in the wrong direction, Francis was concentrating very hard on only stepping in the centre of the upraised cobblestones, and Gilbert was tripping over and cursing said cobblestones, the adventurous three struck out in search of fame and renown, their hearts full and spirits light. 

30 seconds later, as Gilbert heaved into an alleyway, Francis dimly noted that bellies empty could also apply. 

Somehow, they managed their way onto the old forest road with minimal injuries and set off towards their prize. It was lucky the tavern was close to the training grounds on the far edge of town, else there could have been no guarantee they would have been able to navigate themselves through Hetare. They had not the foresight to bring a lantern with them, but the dusky light of the moon was enough to light their way, and their eyes quickly adjusted, albeit with some blurry additions that didn’t seem to go away. Looking back on it, Francis wasn’t quite sure what had transpired during that walk, only that Antonio seemed insistent on scaring everything away with increasingly bawdy songs, and anything brave enough to investigate the sound of the noise would soon be chased away by Gilbert’s pitchy accompaniments. If a third voice also joined in, well, Francis would later deny having participated in any of the off-key theatrics lest his reputation as a perfect and artistically gifted gentleman be called into question. 

As it were, they soon found themselves free of the shadow of trees and staring up at the eternally cloudy-peak of Wrunele, its looming size made eerie by the shimmering light of the full moon as it peaked through the clouds. Now that they were fully into the wane hours of the morning and without the protection of the dense forest to protect them, the trio were now at the mercy of the buffeting frigid winds that swooped down from the mountain peaks and sent icy tendrils into the very core of their bones. The sudden cold served to sober Francis shook himself a bit and suddenly found himself rather uncomfortable and distinctly aware of the fact that they had little more than their everyday wear and travelling cloaks to protect them. 

To his right, Antonio groaned and pulled his cloak tighter around himself, looking positively miserable. To his left, Gilbert’s cloak was still flung over one shoulder after a particularly enthusiastic twirl earlier and he showed no signs of burden from the frigid breeze. Nor were his movements as jerky and disjointed as Francis felt, in fact, as Gilbert decided now was the moment to drink from the flask he had spirited away somewhere, Francis found himself both impressed and a little scared of his friend’s tolerance. 

“Where are we going?” Francis finally asked, stopping a few steps later as he squinted upwards, trying to peer through the swirling fog. 

Gilbert suppressed a belch and waved his hand non-committedly at the summit, “Up.” 

“Insightful.” Antonio murmured, staring too far to the left. 

Not to be deterred, Gilbert continued with his instructions and sharply gestured to a darker spot on their right, “Fritzy said there was a path up thataway that knights usually take, so that’s where we’re starting Phase Two of our awesome dragon-slaying plan.” 

Francis was confused. “Phase Two? What was Phase One?.”

“Fucking getting here Francis.” 

“Ah.”

“Now gentleman.” Gilbert began, quickly turning to face his companions and planting his hands firmly on his hips, “What awaits us is a lifetime of gold and chicks and teatime with the Queen for the low price of five minutes in the lair of a terrible beast. Now I know you guys can be pussies, but I also know that nothing can show its ugly mug in front of the three of us and win. We’re the bravest goddamn knights west of the river!” 

Now, Francis wasn’t quite sure which river his friend was talking about, but the wave of pride that coursed through him at the unorthodox pep talk was enough to make even the staunchest soldier charge into battle. 

Antonio, on the other hand, was currently demonstrating his bravery by courageously face planting into the ground as his foot caught on some unevenness and sent him sprawling. 

“You okay Toni?”

“Don’t worry, I am doing great.” He slurred, but the hand that had gone up to seemingly indicate as such was quick to rejoin the rest of him and it didn’t look like he would be charging into battle anytime. 

Already down one, the two remaining members of the group stared at each other, and although Francis was a bit too woozy to properly gauge his friend’s expression, certainly Gilbert felt the beginnings of worry that had started to brew in his own gut. 

“Do we...carry him?” Francis ventured. 

Gilbert shrugged and strode over to Antonio’s side, Francis mirroring his actions on his left, each grabbing an arm. Loudly counted to three, they tugged with all the strength of someone who is both desperate and annoyed though unfortunately, they had underestimated how heavy a fully-grown deadweight actually was and Antonio smacked into the ground none-too-gently a second later. Francis idly wondered if that crack was his friend’s nose or just an unfortunate stick. Perhaps his shoulder?

“Okay, so we don’t carry him.” 

Gilbert groaned and tapped the prone form with his foot, “Antonio this is so not awesome!” 

Francis was suddenly struck with an idea of pure genius, “We could drag him up and use him as dragon bait.” 

“Dragon bait.” Gilbert echoed, both men staring in contemplation, “Let’s do it.” 

Two more failed attempts later, they had achieved nothing save for a few extra feet and what would likely be a hell of a bruise tomorrow morning for Antonio. Francis flopped onto his back and stared up at the few stars that peeked through the overcast. 

“This is hopeless.” He started, suddenly feeling very tired indeed. He said as much to Gilbert who, predictably, acted quite affronted. 

“Oh come on, we’re so close! Don’t flake out on me now!” He lamented, coming to stand over Francis and prodding him with both feet in some odd shuffle, “Fran, Fran, Francis, Fran.” 

Francis groaned, “Go away.”

“No. Get your ass up, we’re going dragon-hunting.” 

Now that he was down, the original excitement had all but faded and Francis was all too aware of the fact that he was very tired and very cold and that ground was also very cold and very uncomfortable. In combo these things were making him a bit more petulant than usual. “No.” 

Now Gilbert was pulling at his arms, leaning back with all the force he could muster to try and coax the other into a sitting position. When Francis responded by showing off his best impression of a dead fish, Gilbert decided to treat him like one and let him slam back into the ground. 

“That hurt.”

How dare his friend have the audacity to look amused, “Suck it up princess, I’ll do it again if you don’t get up.” 

Francis frowned, Gilbert smirked. 

And he did it again. 

“I hate you.”

With no great show of enthusiasm, Francis hauled himself to his feet and made a show of brushing off his doublet, making sure to send in a few glares for good measure. After deeming his bedraggled appearance satisfactory, the two started towards the mountain, its shadow growing even darker with each step. Gilbert’s lips were still crooked up in a grin that quickly started to slip off his face as they drew near the path. 

Francis was still mulling things over in his mind, but that didn’t stop him from halting after a few moments when he noticed a lack of footsteps accompanying him. 

“Gilbert?” 

Their proximity to the mountain made seeing a bit more difficult, and while Francis could see the thin wisps of his breath curling upwards, making out shapes a few feet in front of him was becoming steadily less possible; he could barely discern the shape of his friend standing a ways behind him. 

“It’s dark.” Gilbert supplied, hesitation creeping into his voice for the first time that night. 

“Yes.”

“My eyes are bad, I can’t see shit.” 

“Neither can I and you don’t see me complaining!” 

“You’ve been complaining the entire time!” 

Francis was getting a bit exasperated.

“Besides, I’m too awesome to go charging up a mountain in the dark.” 

“This was your idea!” 

Francis vaguely made out the shadow shaking its head, “I think I’m gonna sit this one out.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“If I go up there, I’m going to break my ankle and be useless anyways.” 

“Then come up with me and break your ankle, maybe you can be the dragon bait!” 

Gilbert scoffed, “As if. Plus Antonio’s dead so someone has to drag his ass back into town.” 

“And is there some reason why we cannot just bring him back now and then come back in the morning?” 

“If we come back in the morning someone else will have probably beat us up the mountain. This is our only chance at glory!” 

Francis’ mind couldn’t find anything to dispute that. Gilbert always had the best rationale. 

Had he been a little less inebriated, perhaps Francis would have pointed out the major flaws in his friend’s rationale, or perhaps the fact that those who had fought the dragon during the day at full health and a posse of warriors at their back still met their doom. He might have even paid some heed to the fact that he was angry at Gilbert for abandoning him to do something that was Gilbert’s idea in the first place. As it was though, Francis nodded slowly, considering the opportunity. Gilbert did have a point, if he were to defeat the dragon and make it out alive, he would be nothing short of a hero, his name passed down throughout legend. They would make songs in his name, tomes in his honour. He might just get to meet the real King and put an end to the ridiculous argument from earlier. 

Well that cinched things. 

“You know what, fine. I will go up the mountain, I will slay that dragon, and I will mount its head above my fireplace.” He declared, staring resolutely towards his goal. 

Gilbert whooped in elation, Antonio snored. A nearby farmer wondered what all the shouting was about and had half a mind to go investigate. “That’s what I’m talking about!” 

Francis let loose a mighty yell and charged up the hill, the dawn sun glinting off his raised sword as he ran towards glory beyond mention.

Or perhaps to his doom.


	2. Chapter 2

Francis’ headstrong charge was halted moments after it began as the shadows of the mountain closed around him and made it nearly impossible to see even two feet in front of him. In an instant, he decided against continuing his mad sprint in favour of taking a more careful approach, examining the ashen ground beneath as if warding off anything surprise rocks or shrubbery that sought to send him sprawling. 

It was a difficult endeavour, disoriented as he was, though his level of sobriety would not have determined it either way; the oppressing darkness of the mountain hovered over the landscape like a putrid fog, clogging up the space in front as well as his lungs as he struggled upwards, his wheezing only growing stronger with every step. Francis could barely make out the hazy shapes around him, all twisted vine and scraggly brush that spoke of derelict and all manner of things he usually went out of his way to avoid. Even odder, the second he had crossed the brink of this strange mist, all sound seemed to disappear and even his own footfalls sounded distorted and muted - too far away for it to be real. 

A sense of dread was slowly working its way up Francis’ spine, his earlier ardour all but vanished after mere moments. Even his tipsiness seemed to be fading, sucked out, and god did he wish he was still drunk enough not to notice how stifling his surroundings had become. With every second he spent in this eerie place, the more he noticed that things were not quite right - there was the matter of his footsteps, but what was he had first thought to be twisting vines were quickly becoming unclassifiable black sticks that bent in unnatural ways, curving into corners and looping around each other in ways that defied all rationality. Upon further inspection, the scraggly grasses that crisscrossed the path did so with their roots exposed, with only a few white tendrils reaching into the earth while the rest hovered impossibly over it. 

There was no movement. Francis was utterly alone and utterly afraid. 

It was all very disconcerting, and Francis made to leave immediately, every nerve in his body firing and screaming at him to turn back, leave this place, dragon and glory be damned. 

“I take it back!” To his own ears the words fell flat, even though he was quite sure he had yelled them out.  
Francis doubted anyone would hear him, could hear him like this. Still. 

“There’s something very wrong with this place, not natural.” He whispered. It sounded like drums in his ears. 

His sword shook lightly in his grip as he inched his way back, his eyes inexorably drawn to the way ahead before he tore his gaze from it and made to run back the way he came. The flora he had just passed seemed changed in the short absence, but Francis didn’t care enough to verify the fact, his sole focus narrowing to scuttling back to his friends and pretending this whole thing hadn’t happened. 

As luck would have it though, he only managed a few steps before the fog surrounded and then he was completely blind. 

It was a strange turn of events, from going to drunk to more alert than he had ever been to feeling like...absolutely nothing, weightless in a world that was equally blank and devoid. The breath fled from his lungs and his sight deserted him, rushing into the void and taking every other sense with it. He couldn’t breathe, but it didn’t bother him, even though it did and part of his brain was shrieking against the lack of the air. He couldn’t walk, but the prospect of escape was no longer important, except that it was and he wanted nothing more than to leave this accursed place. 

There was a jolt, and then Francis found himself deposited on the ground in an ungainly pile of limbs and terror, every sensation rushing back with the force of a hammer. His ears rang incessantly and there was an acrid taste in his mouth, but Francis was more concerned with ensuring he was still in one piece and no longer trapped in a realm of nothing and everything. 

It would have been an understatement to say that what he found was comforting. He was still trapped in the mist, that was for sure, but even as he pushed himself to his knees, Francis knew that he was no longer where he started. 

Or perhaps it was, he didn’t know what to think any more. 

He risked a tentative glance back as he struggled to his feet, registering that his sword was safely back in its sheath as his hand brushed over the rough pommel. Nothing save for a silent wall of shadow awaited his gaze. He turned again. Before him, the path stretched out, not in any clearer direction, but at least he could see more than a few feet in front of him. 

Francis swallowed and brought a hand up to rub worriedly at his neck, debating his next move, but dread had infused nearly every aspect of his being. This was no ordinary mountain and it certainly wasn’t meant for errant souls like him to come traipsing through, regardless of intent. 

It was with a heavy heart that Francis started forward, not daring to risk another encounter by moving back. His hand dropped from cupping his chin to fiddle with the pendant that hung there, round in shape with the rough form of an iris hammered into it, its gold facade polished by years of mindless rubbing. 

He walked for a little while, keeping his eyes resolutely ahead instead of on the strangeness around him, before the beaten earth suddenly gave way to a road, paved in glossy black stone that shone despite the lack of light. Francis started as his boots touched the stone, seemingly having appeared before his eyes. He snapped his head up and suddenly a long path stretched in front of him, the sides still blurred with illusion, but the direct suddenly clear as day. The longer he looked, the longer it became, and he could have sworn there were no trees there before. 

Francis groaned and pressed both palms to his eyes, already sick of strange things and decidedly not ready to deal with anymore. Just as well though, for when he opened them again and looked ahead instead of glaring morosely at the ground, a forest had sprung up in front of him, a mess of dark firs that stretched beyond the gloom and sheltered the path from odd scraggly plants that had no business looking odd in the first place. 

“Gilbert, I hate you.” 

Francis chanced another glance behind him and was only disappointed when the same shadow blocked his path. Truly, his situation was fantastic, being assaulted by the void and now forced to enter a strange wood that could very well swallow him up the moment he stepped inside. Simply fantastic. 

Francis drew his sword and gulped as he stared up the mass of trees. The path stretched further, its glow not diminished by the cover, and sending an eerie emerald light dappling off the trunks. No sound came from the forest, no wind blew through the branches and no birdsong pierced the quiet, but at least the trees looked somewhat normal - despite their enormous size, they at least didn’t float or bend themselves into the shape of a rabbit. 

Even so, the message the forest sent was very clear, only fools would dare enter. The knight groaned. fool is me I suppose, he thought dourly, for it seemed he had no other choice but to continue onwards. 

Francis counted to three, pinching the bridge of his nose, cursed every aspect of himself that had placed him here in this very moment and swore to never again listen to anything Gilbert had to say, and stepped gingerly forward into the forest’s shadow. 

The response was anticlimactic. The grey light morphed into a darker shade and Francis didn’t need to look back to know that he would no longer be able to see the waste. The pines seemed to close around him and Francis found himself almost missing the fog that had plagued the corner of his vision, at least that had hidden any additional strangeness, and there was something to be said about the bliss of ignorance. In comparison, though, he could see straight through the dense trunks to the blackness that lay beyond, harbouring any fashion of creature that could come running out at any moment. It was strange, being in a place that was both too open and too close, only the hyper alert state of being was an outlier; surely a forest that sought to suffocate would muddle the mind until an unfortunate traveller could no longer tell which way was up? 

Francis’ nerves sang with every step and sweat beaded along his brow. What he wouldn’t give for one of Antonio’s shanties right now, even Gilbert’s screeching would have been a welcome reprieve from this total silence, though he would definitely be punching his obnoxious friend if they were together right now. 

There was no time to ponder that thought. As quickly as he had entered it, the forest was gone, replaced again by the barren landscape of dust and stone that first greeted him, albeit with more hills this time. Francis almost screamed in frustration. Was this truly to never end? Would he be cursed for his delusions of grandeur by wandering these lifeless plains until life deserted him as well? 

The thought was sobering, and even if he didn’t need it anymore, Francis was grateful for the urgency it gave his steps as he jogged up the first hill, hoping desperately for some sort of vantage point though expecting to only be disappointed in return. 

It seemed like he would be, at first, as he rounded the crest of the mound and was met with nothing but grey. This time he really did scream, shouting and swearing at every god he knew for coming up with such a torturous punishment, and really, did a desire to make a name for oneself deserve to be rewarded like this? 

Francis kicked a wayward pebble with too much force and shouted again when he scuffed his boot. “What do you want?!” He clamored at the sky, “I only wanted to bring peace to the world and also make myself rich and famous beyond compare. Is that too much to ask?”

He thought about what he had just said. Perhaps not the best choice of words to convey his humble victim stance. 

“I’m sorry about calling you a bastard.” 

No response came from above. Francis took a moment to feel sorry for himself before once again begrudgingly walking forward, shuffling his feet and hearing nothing but his own breathing. The mishappeness of the barren shrubs had now taken the form of straight lines, reaching off towards the sky and branching off from one another in what looked like a crude imitation of a hand. In fact, as he looked nervously around, the entire path seemed bordered by hands of wood that were becoming more and more realistic. 

Curiosity and slight disgust overtaking him, the knight prodded one with the tip of his sword as he passed to make sure it wasn’t actually real. He still continued with his hurried pace, and barely bothered to continue looking once his head had turned a corner and the resistance against his blade had confirmed that it was indeed made of wood and not flesh as his mind had so callously decided to worry him with. 

There was a tug on his cloak to his left and a high pitched sound erupted from his throat before Francis was tearing down the pathway, pulling his cloak tightly around him as his eyes darted back and forth across the border. 

Curse this place, curse whatever magic has made it this way, I hate it here. 

Terrified as he was, Francis didn’t dare strike directly at one of the stakes but didn’t trust them enough not to strike at him. So it was that he covered the next stretch of ground, clambering over hills that grew with each he passed and skidding down their increasing slopes. The mist filled his lungs the higher he climbed, and though he had sweat through his doublet, there was no chill or heat to soothe his aching legs and racing heart. He had to pause halfway up another incline, and braced his hands on his knees as he fought to prevent himself from collapsing through laboured gasps. A strange whispering filled his ears, unintelligible from his own thoughts. 

Panting hard, the knight cast a wary eye around, but the brown grass that poked through the cobblestones was a welcome distraction from the ghastly appendages. Hold on. Francis swept a hand across the shining obsidian stones. The stone path had not disappeared after all, sucked back into hard packed and cracked earth. 

Unsure of what to make of his discovery, Francis righted himself. “Okay.” He muttered, brushing imaginary dust from his front and turning his gaze upwards. “Okay.” He tried again, taking in deep lungfuls of air. 

The slope was steeper than what he had encountered before, and he braced his feet against the stone that was slick and solid, ankles voicing their protests as his foot bent at an unnatural angle to accommodate. Slowly, with enough time to get his breath back, Francis climbed up the hill, which truly felt like a second mountain in its own right if his exhaustion had anything to say about it. Like the forest, the ascent felt both like an impossible journey and an impossibly short one, for no sooner had he begun to wonder when he would reach the summit then he was there, at the top of a nothingness that plateaued a mere few feet in front of him. 

The whispering had increased in volume, now more than a mild annoyance as it reverberated around his skull, murmuring warnings and advice that went unheeded as it passed through without sticking, nothing more than a jumble of tones. Francis rubbed at both ears, sealing them with the pads of his fingers to no avail. He jerked his head and peered through his squinting. 

From ahead, a glimmer of light pierced through the gloom, not enough to dispel the clouds completely, but more than enough to give Francis the final burst of hope he needed to clear the threshold. Tripping on rocks and upraised roots that seemed to materialize out of nowhere just to inconvenience him, he sprinted forward, hands outstretched as if to part the mist by force, and threw himself into the warm light. 

The whispering exploded into a cacophony of noise and Francis fell with the sudden weight of it all, dimly registering that fact he could hear himself rolling down some sort of incline and could smell the crisp scent of crushed grass rather than dust. His eyes screwed shut even as he once again brought his hands up to clap over his ears, though it did nothing to deafen the voices. 

Get out. The voices seemed to coalesce and shout in unison. Leave this place, only death awaits. They were roaring now, a terrible sound of rasping and shouting and coldness so overwhelming it felt like his brain was bouncing around in his skull. 

Leave this place. It announced again, converging on one single tone dripping with a disdain so haughty Francis’ lip curled in automatic response. 

“I cannot leave.” He spoke, or perhaps thought, “The path I took is shut to me.”

There was no response, and a second later his hearing returned full-force as whatever presence had occupied his mind suddenly disappeared, fleeing from his skull with an awful ripping sensation that left Francis feeling exposed. He trembled slightly with exertion and curled his fingers into his hair to ground himself once more. Lingering feelings of malice and annoyance skirted through his consciousness. 

It took a few more minutes before he was able to get his bearings and open his eyes again, though thoughts of the terrible presence were quickly banished as he promptly gazed upon a clearing more beautiful than anything he had ever seen before. In stark contrast to the earlier hellscape, the valley that lay before him was devoid of the feeling of neglect and decay or indeed, any colour that was not brimming with life and a brightness so vivid it caused his eyes to water, used to a more washed out palette. He was standing in a basin, that much was certain, with sheer rock faces enclosing the entire space, including the way he had come. In the distance, a narrow gap betrayed some sort of opening, though nothing could be seen beyond the bright blue of the sky, and oh how he had missed seeing the sky, few hours without it or no. 

A lush field extended a few leagues before him in a sort of misshapen oval, him being at the narrowest point. Thick grass swayed benignly in the soft breeze that rippled across the plain, rustling the nearby trees in a remarkable display of life. Wildflowers dotted the expanse, and Francis swore he had never seen flowers so vibrant, nor any plant remotely resembling the ones he saw now. Taking a few steps away from the rock face, he bent down and plucked a yellow buttercup-looking blossom from its perch, marvelling at its luster before tucking it safely behind his ear. 

Flowers were always lovely, especially after one had just spent a while thinking they would never see one again. He shook the last of the tremors from his frame. 

The recently risen sun shone brightly in the east, a strange omen that hopefully meant not too much time had transpired during his journey, and birds twittered in the copses of trees as smaller animals frolicked amongst the brush, breathing life into the valley, which, as he now noticed, leisurely strolling through the field, gentle curved until it met a sparkling lake. What caught his attention most though, was the magnificent castle directly across the way. Crafted in a style that was now lost to man, the castle was carved into the cliffside, grey towers rearing up from the water and reflecting its rippling light along the walls. There were no fortifying walls as Francis was used to, but instead a long bridge that branched off from the valley and flew high above the field, elegant support arches descending into the water. 

Francis felt the thrill of excitement and fear run through him. Here was something new, a true adventure if he’d ever seen one, and he was one of the only ones who could claim to see it. 

The fear amplified itself then. If a dragon truly lay beyond those stone walls, then he may very well take the secret of the valley’s beauty to his grave. 

A small tittering laugh to his left tore his focus away from the castle. The knight looked around in confusion and stopped his stroll. 

“Is someone there?” He ventured, extending his arm only to realize, with much less shock than he probably should have, that his sword had once again made its way back into its sheath. The laugh sounded again, this time to his right and he whipped around, slowly drawing his weaponed as he positioned himself into a defensive stance, finally remembering his training. 

“A strange man approaches!” A gleeful voice called out from behind. 

“A knight!” Called another, “Look at his sword!” 

“Isn’t wearing anything shiny though, no gold or silver to protect!” 

“Won’t last long against Gringolet like that.” 

Francis’ neck was beginning to strain from all the twisting and turning, though still no figure revealed itself. He briefly worried about the voice from before, but these were not of the same caliber, pleasant and lilting as they were. 

“A pity too, look at that golden hair, absolutely lovely that is.”

“Thank you?” He answered, sounding as confused as he felt.  
There was another giggle and suddenly in front of him was a child. 

No, not a child. He thought, blinking away his surprise as his sword lowered, a fae. 

“That’s right!” She exclaimed, delightedly clapping her hands together. Francis was sure he didn’t say anything out loud. 

“You didn’t.” She beamed up at him, sapphire eyes, brighter than anything, staring into his own. 

The fae was cloaked in what looked like flower petals, bluebells perhaps, artfully arranged into a short gown that covered her from knee to elbow and ballooned into a trumpet shape at the bottom. Her feet were bare with thin green vines curling around her wrists. The shimmering azure wings were what drew his attention most though, scintillating in the light as the fae flitted excitedly about, never staying in the same place for more than a moment. She very well could have been a child for all Francis could keep his eye on her, but something told him she was much older than that. 

“My name is Bluebell!” She spoke again, confirming his earlier suspicion. “What’s yours?” 

“Francis.” He replied automatically, eyes big in wonder with an expression of incredulity that could probably rival Bluebell’s. So the stories were true then! His sister had always been a fan of stories about the fair folk, and as a child he and Monique would often coercere their mother or their aunt into telling them tales of the little people who lived deep within the woods, enraptured for hours. 

His face was quickly breaking out into a joyous grin. This was turning out to be so much more than he could have hoped for. Oh what the others would say when he told them about this. 

Gilbert would owe him at least three crowns. From what, he wasn’t sure yet, but he could probably claim a bet about the existence of mythical creatures - he was still mad at Gilbert anyways. 

Bluebell quirked her head to the side, having received many of the same reaction in the past. What a sad and mundane life it must be for the men below the mountain, to never have experienced the magic all fae drew their lifeforce from. “Just Francis?” She asked again with a small smile. 

Francis shook himself from his contented reverie and returned the expression. “Sir Francis Bonnefoy of the Kingdom of Hetare, at your service.” He swept his cape back in a deep bow, finally remembering his manners. 

The fae giggled behind her hand and flitted up to eye level, “Lovely to make your acquaintance Sir Bonnefoy, not all the knights who make it up here are as nice as you.” 

“That’s because they’re only up here for the gold, not to make small talk!” Francis looked down to see another fae woman, this one in red and the owner of the second voice, stalking determinedly towards the other. 

“Poppy you’re no fun.” Bluebell made a face as the other flew up. Francis smiled at her as well but the gesture was not returned. “It’s been ages since anyone has come to visit!”

“And I’d say good riddance to all of them. Your lot.” Now she was addressing Francis directly with a pointed jab in his direction, “Are nothing but trouble and you-” Now she pointed accusingly at Bluebell, “Know better. You know what he’ll say if he finds out you’ve been talking to one of ‘em again.” 

Bluebell looked sufficiently quelled and her wings drooped, “I know.” She pouted. “But-”

“No buts!” Poppy grabbed onto her hand and was slowly pulling the protesting fae away, “He said not to bother with ‘em and no one wants to see you hurt-”

“I’m sorry, who is it that we are referring to?” Francis questioned.

“That would be me.” 

Francis whipped his head around wildly as someone spoke next to his ear, but nothing save the breeze was beside him. Bluebell and Poppy had disappeared. 

An icy chill crept into his bones as he pinpointed the voice, now coalesced into a single entity but still no less disconcerting. 

At least it wasn’t in his head this time. 

“An invisible fae that dictates who people can and cannot talk to?” Francis responded cockily, still smarting from the earlier assault on his mind and brandishing his sword anew. 

He received a laugh in response, but there was nothing but derision behind it. “You’re here to fight a dragon, o wise knight.” The voice drawled, decidedly masculine and now coming from the other side, “I would suggest the castle as a starting point for what you seek.” 

“And what if it is the company of the fae that brought me here?” 

Another sound of cruel amusement, “I have seen inside your mind Sir-” His title was spoken with such antipathy he almost spoke out at the indigance, “And I can assure no thoughts of the fair folk occupied your thoughts on your way here. Though hearing you speak I can understand how you may have difficulty forming any coherent ones.” 

Francis did speak out at this one, “Who are you to go rampaging in people’s thoughts?” He challenged, arcing his blade as if to strike his invisible opponent. “I don’t normally let strange men inside me that easily.” 

He tried a few more swings in the silence that followed, revelling in the fact that he may have just one-upped the other despite the lack of gratification his sword hitting flesh would have brought. 

“Perhaps I will watch you fail, if only for my own amusement.” 

“Then you will be sorely disappointed when I slay the dragon and make off with the great treasure.” The fire was back in Francis’ system, and he felt as if he could conquer any beast. If only to rub it in your arrogant face.

“That’s what they all say.” The voice turned corrosive once more, the ice was creeping back into his veins, and Francis didn’t feel so self-assured anymore. “And then they and all their gallant thoughts are vaporized to nothing but ash.” Francis shivered, “Proceed as you will Sir, and enjoy the sunlight, I daresay you’ll never see it again.” 

There was a shift in the air, less cloying, less frigid, and Francis knew that whatever presence had taunted him had departed. He was not loath to see it go. 

Turning towards the castle, Francis scanned its facade for any indication of a monstrous lizard about to burst forth and gobble him whole. Seeing none, he hefted his longsword on his shoulder and started towards the bridge.

The way behind him was shut, there was only one way forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you couldn't tell, I quite enjoy exposition and detailed descriptions. More interesting things to come in the next chapter, that I can promise. 
> 
> Historical tidbit regarding the dragon's name: Gringolet is Sir Gawain’s horse according to the legend of King Arthur and is described as a “sturdy charger, known far and wide for his ability in combat.” He is also the only named steed of any character in the legend (to my knowledge, and this is the main reason why I'm using his name despite...some potentially interesting modern interpretations) and his name is linked to a Celtic tradition of heroic white horses with red ears (this may or may not become important later, I’ll leave the deductions up to you).


	3. Chapter 3

From the moment he stepped on the bridge, Francis felt deeply concerned about the fate that awaited him. As he traversed the dull stone, the merriness of the valley seemed to fall away with every step he took. At the halfway point, even the birdsong seemed to disappear, leaving Francis stranded in a foreboding silence that reminded him too much of his earlier trek to be met with anything but dread. His only consolation came from the scuffing of his boots and the faint swishing of his cloak as the winds picked up and buffeted his sides, enough to lend some wavering to his footsteps, but not to send him careening into the water.

And some fall that would be; Francis fought the urge to gulp as he stared down at the water moving increasingly further away. The longer he walked the shallower the lake appeared, and he didn’t fancy taking a quick dip to test the depth, put-off as he was with the unnatural aura surrounding the castle.

Not that there was anything outwardly foreboding about the structure, no; even as he drew closer, the sun continued to shine cheerily, chasing away the night’s chills as the crystal water of the lake rippled with the breeze, carrying the sweet scent of wildflowers. At first glance, it appeared nothing more than an abandoned castle, and a great one at that. No, the problem was that it felt as if the very air prickled with...something, an indescribable something that sent gooseflesh running the length of Francis’ exposed arms. The feeling of neglect and decay unfounded by the castle’s strong rocks and exquisite towers framed with carvings of battles and beasts that wound their way around the walls, the absence of rot despite the atmosphere to the contrary. 

If his steps picked up in pace by the time he was safely across, Francis tried not to show it outwardly. In contrast to the castle, the bridge was not as structurally sound as he would have liked, in fact, it was bordering on night impassable, strewn with errant rocks and missing several blocks that most would consider key parts of the structure. He also wasn’t sure if he could hear certain sections straining under his weight, or whether the alarming groans of stone against stone were just a result of his overactive imagination. It wasn’t too far out of the question - this place sent was sending his mind into a tizzy. 

The situation was most certainly not helped when, seconds after he was back on solid ground, the blocks closest to him suddenly shook and shot upwards, where they hovered a hundred feet off the ground and effectively cut off his only escape route. Wonderful. This day was really just wonderful. 

Francis readjusted his grip on his sword hilt and strode purposefully towards the entrance, a great door hewn of what looked to be more than a dozen trees and interlaid with an intricate iron filigree. Francis cast a wary eye around him, noting the covered walkway to his left that seemed to lead into a green courtyard, and trying pointedly to ignore his rapidly increasing heartbeat. Turning his attention back to the door, the knight beheld a massive iron knocker that was nearly the size of his own head, inscribed with runes that just exuded a sense of antiquity. 

There was a battle raging inside him as he stared at the door, not wanting to come any closer to actually touch it. He had come this far yes, and if the strange voice or fairy king or whatever he was from earlier were to be believed, then there was no other choice but to enter the castle. 

That being said, Francis didn’t exactly want to enter.

However, as it seemed to be the theme of the day, the decision was made for him as before his eyes, the runes began to change, almost swimming as they wove their way across the iron and morphed into a much more familiar script, that of the common tongue. The runes above and below continued to shift into unintelligible stories while the ones in the middle stayed constant, if not wavering slightly. 

“Those who wield cannot enter, who enshroud cannot stay. Who cowers will crumple and not again see the day.”

Well if that wasn’t a cryptic warning message he didn’t know what was.

Francis hummed, bending slightly at the waist as he turned this way and that, trying to make out any additional bits of helpful information. It quickly became apparent that he would receive nothing further, he reached a tentative hand towards the knocker before poking it quickly with one outstretched finger and quickly stepping back. Thankfully, no unpleasant shocks or voices or dragons careened out at him, and after a few baited breaths he felt confident enough to place a whole hand on the iron handle and give it a mighty tug.

The doors didn’t even budge. Not even as much as a whisper.

Francis stuck his sword into a patch of grass and tried again, harder this time, and again, and again, until he was practically leaning his entire weight back, impaling his sword upon the sparse grasp as he pulled with both hands, then with the help of his foot in a show that was neither gallant nor dignified and more reminiscent of some poor festival clown.

“Oh you troublesome-.” An idea lit up in his mind as Francis threw his entire weight against the door instead and felt only marginally less stupid when that didn’t work either.

The next fifteen minutes were spent in a shockingly creative array of positions that never in his wildest dreams Francis believed he would have been able to come up with. He had just finished a move that had him basically upside-down when his grip finally slipped and he collapsed on the stone steps with a huff, both legs still propped up against the wood.

“You would think the message would come with hints.” Francis muttered, a second before a light flared to life in his head and he propelled himself upwards, his upper half trembling in an off-balance crunch as he glared at the door and current bane of his existence. “If I ask nicely will you give me a hint?” 

The door did not speak. Of course it didn’t, because it was a door, and because Francis was an idiot. 

The knight groaned and threw his legs back until he had flipped and was back on the grass. Crouching, Francis rested his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands, staring. 

The door did not move. 

Nearing his wits end, a sentiment not helped by the fact that the wind was still blowing and he was cold and tired and still kind of hungover and also trapped in this hellscape, Francis sighed in defeat and pushed himself up, yanking his sword up and sheathing it swiftly before turning to explore another side of the castle. 

The doors swung open. Francis blinked.

“You’re kidding.”

Peering into the inky depths, Francis inhaled deeply and drew his weapon once again. However as he took his first steps forward, his only warning was a slight creaking of the doors as the suddenly slammed shut in his face, narrowly missing his nose. Francis jumped back with a curse.

“Stop that!” He whined petulantly, slamming his free palm on the wood, “You are making this so much harder than it needs to be.” 

He caught sight of the inscription. Francis stared at his sword, then at the door, then at his sword, then at the door. He re-sheathed the weapon.

The doors opened. 

Ah. Wield, as in, ‘to wield a weapon’. 

That wasn’t very fair if there was a dragon waiting just inside. 

The stones on the bridge continued their unnatural stillness hundreds of feet in the air and the wind had stopped. It was obvious where he was supposed to go, but Francis did not want to go there; nothing about the absolute darkness and drafty, musty air that awaited him seemed pleasurable, especially when he could easily imagine a gigantic beast lurking just within the shadows. 

Within, the castle looked derelict, in even worse state than the bridge if that were even possible. Francis couldn’t say he was surprised, he didn’t suspect dragons were particularly good housekeepers, nor would he have expected anything different from a building that practically screamed ‘abandoned’. Experimentally, he reached down for one of the many small pebbles that littered the courtyard and rolled it into the hall. When no bursts of fire or ghastly roars answered, he took a deep breath to ground himself and moved resolutely across the threshold, his boots a loud whisper on the cobblestones. 

As if to cement the idea that this was a place of old magic and mystery, the second he was fully entombed in the hall the doors slammed shut behind him and the hallway blazed to life; ornate, if not more than a little dusty, candelabras flaring as a line of deep yellow light ignited down the length of the hall, the whooshing sound continuing as it reached an antechamber and moved onwards. Francis squinted against the sudden flare of brightness, hand coming up automatically to shield himself from the brunt of it, his heart nearly leaping out of his chest as, for one heart-stopping moment, his mind saw nothing but dragonfire and heard nothing but the roar of a monstrous beast. If he made a sound in the back of his throat that sounded a bit too much like a whine, he tried his best not to show it. 

Francis’ spirit was playing a game of mental tug o'war within him, and he very nearly stomped his foot in exasperation. He yanked his sword from its sheath, frankly tired of all of drawing and resheathing, and channeled his frustration at the door apparently not having a problem with drawn weapons within the castle by stomping down said castle’s ridiculously bare hallway. He was in a huff, his poor nerves were frayed to the point of breaking, and at this point he would gladly face the dragon if not just to give it a piece of his mind. 

Emerging into a large antechamber that was equally devoid of anything save the lamplight that did not flicker and the bare stone that was in great contrast with the ornate workings of the candelabras, Francis felt slightly emboldened when no arrows flew at him from the walls and the floor didn’t give way beneath him. He almost groaned when he saw another wooden door blocking his path, though thankfully this one didn’t need more encouragement than a firm hand to open it. 

He emerged into a larger room, noting how the atmosphere seemed stagnant and cold despite the surprising lack of dust, and briefly registered the stone steps leading up to a second story balcony before his attention was pulled abruptly to the left by the golden gleam of...well gold. There was no mistaking it, the colour was too bright to be mere firelight, and dappling too convenient for it to be anything but. 

“And that is where I am going.” 

A giddy feeling bubbled up in his chest, briefly offsetting the battle of terror and frustration (neither of which he particularly wanted to feel right now), as Francis’ suspicions were confirmed the second he rounded the archway, rewarded by the sight of a downward twisting staircase and handfuls of gold colds scattered around the steps. 

I deserve this. He thought, scooping up handfuls and making quick work of shoving them into his pockets. After a moment, he laid down his sword to better continue his work, moving down the staircase with frightening efficiency, elation building as he spotted a ruby here, a sapphire there, more wealth than he had ever seen in his entire life.

Well, save that one time he and Antonio had been tasked with helping to carry out one year’s tax revenue, but those chests were paltry compared to this. 

The light intensified the further he went down, and by the time he rounded the final bend even the coins he had considered precious mere seconds ago slipped from his fingers at the sight that awaited him. 

Francis was momentarily overcome by the sheer size of the hoard, a sea of shining gold and glittering gems and ornate statues 10 times the size of him stretching into the shadows of the vault. Great stone pillars erupted from the piles, which seemed to be more than 50 feet deep, and the treasure was heaped haphazardly around the room; open and ripe for the taking. 

An elated laugh wormed its way from his chest and Francis practically ran down the sloping stairs that now lay in front of him, nearly tripping over a silver and emerald-encrusted goblet in his rush and practically diving headfirst into the closest pile, dozens of pressed coins greeting him with a satisfying jingle as he slid down the hill. Francis whooped and tossed handfuls around him, burying his hands as far as they could go and unearthing every manner of priceless treasure. Ever the vain one, he inspected a glittering sapphire necklace for only a second before throwing it over his head, and decided to pair it with a matching circlet he unearthed a second later. Coins were flowing into his boots, his foot briefly got caught in an etched helmet, and when he caught his reflection in a polished sheet of gold, his eyes sparkled as bright as any diamond. 

Oh with this-this would do more than make him a Lord, more than a King even. With a treasure like this, Francis would be richer than any Emperor, could have a palace that rivalled the imperial cities of the Far East. He practically squealed and threw his arms out, falling backwards into another pile and gazing with reverence at the shining ceiling, his gaze wandering hungrily over the hoard. 

Oh it would be grand, floors paved with silver, walls covered in metal so smooth it reflected a perfect image. Francis turned his head, mind whirring with possibility. Yes -he clicked his tongue- the chandeliers would be encrusted with diamonds, the doorknobs made of opals the size of a very large eye-  
Francis blinked, the stone blinked. Nope, not a stone. An eyeball. 

For a second, all they did was blink. Then the eye shifted, the gold began to roll, and any thought of riches and grand palaces was abruptly extinguished as something that was large and red and very much alive began to shift and move no less than 10 feet from where Francis was currently sprawled. 

A massive head reared up. Francis clicked his teeth. A rumble bubbled up from the creature’s maw, dozens of razor sharp teeth staring him down as the dragon, the dread beast of Wrunele, stared him down. Francis screamed. 

In his retellings, he would claim he gave a mighty battle cry and charged the beast with his sword outstretched. This would be a lie. As it were, the sudden glimmer of light from the dragon’s breast was enough for Francis’ mind to finally catch up with the present, and the next second he was up and sprinting for the exit, various adornments cascading off him in his haste to get as far away from here as humanly possible. The dragon roared and Francis practically tripped his way up the stairs, barely even remembering to grab his sword from where it still lay after he had idiotically abandoned it in favour of shinier pastures. The familiar weight felt lighter in his hand, bringing a modicum of comfort where his lack of armour could provide none. 

“I’m sorry!” He yelled, nearly ripping the door off its hinges as he tore down the still-lit hallway. The dragon probably couldn’t speak, or didn’t care, but Francis was trying very hard not to burst into hysterics and he wasn’t thinking quite clearly enough to realize that. 

A roar was the only thing he got in response, an awful thing that vibrated the entire castle. He reached the great entranceway and threw himself once more against the oak doors, scrambling to find a handle. 

“Come on-come ON!” 

There were no handles on this side. 

Another roar and a mighty crash that sounded as if the dragon was trying to bring the entire structure down around them. Francis yelped and turned on heel, hoping to make for the other staircase he had caught a glimpse of earlier. 

He made it to the end of the hall. Behind him, the oak doors swung open, offering an ironically peaceful view of the lush grass outside. 

Francis prided himself on being a man who did not let his emotions get the best of him. He also prided himself on abstaining from the crude behaviour of many of his fellow knights. Neither of those values were upheld in the livid ‘SON OF A WHORE’ that accompanied his mad dash back the way he came. Stupid enchanted castles and their stupid enchanted doors and their stupid murderous hell beasts! 

He burst back outside, breath coming in short pants as a crack resounded from somewhere in the castle. He cast a furtive glance back to the bridge, still floating unnaturally and cutting off his only escape route. Francis skittered to the edge of the cliff, briefly considered jumping off and ending this right then and there, then decided he wasn’t quite ready to face the long drop to death and ran back. The courtyard was unchanged, and Francis stopped to catch his breath for a moment, propping his hands on the low balustrade. 

“This-” He murmured to himself between ragged breaths, “Is ridiculous. I hate my life.” 

He whined and straightened up, tilting his head towards the sky. 

Of course, because everything was just turned against him right now, it was not the comforting azure sky and pleasant clouds that awaited him, but the steadily growing form of a very large and very angry dragon angling right for him. 

For the umpteenth time that day, which was honestly getting to be a bit pathetic at this point, Francis screamed and tripped over the bannister, scrambling to his feet the second after and sprinting for the safety of the covered pathway. 

And of course, because someone up there was having a laugh at his expense, he got no more than halfway across the grass before the dragon alighted directly in front of him with a jet of air and stopped him dead in his tracks. For one terrible second the two regarded each other, Francis’ hunched form reflected in the cruel blood-red eyes of the beast. 

Here it was then, the place where he would make his final stand. 

Francis raised his shaking swordpoint towards the dragon. He took a deep breath, tightened his sweaty grip, raised the blade above his head-

The dragon roared and a swath of fire erupted from its jaws. Francis stumbled backwards, sword flailing helplessly as he promptly ran as fast as he could to the right. A giant tail studded with mean-looking spikes swept in front of him, diverting his path towards an open archway and instead sending him scuttling closer to the dragon’s scaled hide. 

He barely even had time to process it all; feet moving seemingly of their own accord as he jumped over fallen rocks and weaved away from those grasping deadly claws and dagger-like teeth. For one earth-shattering second he found himself underneath it’s belly, and whipped his sword upwards to hopefully score a fatal blow. 

There was a crunch, unfortunately not one of scales separating, but instead the sound of metal snapping as his sword promptly broke in two. 

For a second, Francis did nothing but stare at the fragments of his cherished blade lying spent on the ground. Then the dragon roared again and the resulting blaze of heat that emanated from it’s chest was enough to send him scrambling, ruined sword hilt clattering from his grip as the metal heated red enough to scorch. 

Reeling, he stumbled behind a column and winced - both at his idiocy of neglecting one of the number one rules for knights and abandoning his only weapon, useless as it was, and at the scalding air that whipped past him as the dragon turned its enraged focus on incinerating the stone pillars. 

The heat at his back was continuously building and, as tongues of flame licked at the surrounding stone through the gaps in the columns, Francis knew he was as good as a sitting duck in this position, soon to be a nice roast. A thousand thoughts flew through his mind, each providing increasingly ridiculous plans of escape intermixed with a solidifying sense of resignation that had already started praying for a quick death. Francis elected to ignore that part for now. 

The fire dissipated and the dragon shifted ominously, the sound of sniffing emanating from the centre of the yard. Francis patted himself down for something, anything that could be of use. 

Pocket lint? No. 

Carved wooden bird he had stolen from Gilbert three days ago (and who still hadn’t noticed had gone missing)? Maybe to teach Gilbert a lesson about being a prick and sending his friends on fatal journeys to fight a dragon. Not very effective against said dragon and said dragon’s dragonfire though. 

Shiny necklace as a distraction? Now there was a thought, dragons liked shiny things. 

Francis’ fingers paused at his throat as his other hand brushed against the silky sensation of cloth. With a jolt he remembered the strange ‘old’ man’s equally strange package. Struggling to disentangle it from his rumpled doublet, Francis yanked at the drawstring and was immediately assaulted by a cloud of blue powder; he coughed and waved his free hand in front of his face. Great, just what he needed, another form of smoke to suffocate him. 

His thoughts turned dark for a moment, picturing whether it would be possible to choke on the dust before him before the dragon lapped him up like a roast chicken, before a frigidness began to spread across his chest. Wordlessly, he brought a hand up to his mouth and prodded at the crystals that had formed there. 

Crystals? No, not of stone, crystals of ice! 

Water dripped from his fingertips. A strained, absurd sort of noise escaped him. Oh how he loved that old man in this moment. For not only had the man given him a packet of Floe powder, one that could freeze even the mightiest of fires, he had also delivered Francis’ salvation. If he could just get this near the dragon’s mouth-

Francis fumbled with the strings for a moment before deeming it satisfactory and risking a look beyond the pillar. Like a cat, the dragon sat crouched forward on its haunches, beady eyes peering wildly at the promenade. Francis bit back a gasp and snapped his head back. 

Alright. He rolled his neck and shrugged his shoulders, shaking out the nervousness in his limbs. On the count of three-

One. 

Steeling himself and praying to every god and deity he could remember, Francis took a deep breath.

Two. 

He slid out from behind the charred stone, and proceeded to make a fool of himself in his quest to attract the attention of the very thing that was actively trying to murder him. The cloth, already becoming wet with the clamminess of his hands, pressed into his palm as he held it uncomfortably tight.

“Allez allez!” He shouted, waving his arms about and trying not to cringe as the great red eyes swiveled to regard him with disdain, “Over here you great brute!” 

Unfortunately, said great brute did indeed turn and begin to lumber ‘over here’ with an intent that was much too deadly and way too fast for Francis to do much more than tremble in his boots and fight every instinct that was screaming at him to cower behind the nearest rock. Instead of bursting into tears however, he mustered up what little courage he had left, willed his arms to unlock from where they had practically frozen in fear.

Three.

With as much force as he could muster, he hurled the package into the beast’s open maw.

It was like something out of a troubadour’s tale. The little cloth bag arced gracefully through the air, leather ties flapping leisurely in great contrast to the chaos around it. Even the dragon paused for a second, though whether it was confused by the unorthodox form of attack or had stopped like a viper before delivering the deadly blow to its prey, Francis would never know, for the next moment the bag had landed directly in its still smouldering jaws and the next there was an explosion of blue fire that sent him diving behind the nearest pillar. 

The dragon shrieked, an unholy sound that grated Francis’ teeth and set his hair on end, and thrashed around the courtyard, tail whipping about with reckless abandon as it crashed into the balustrade close to him and sent a spray of dust and rock into the air. Francis instinctively screwed his eyes shut and cringed away from the explosion, clapping his hands over his ears as the beast let loose another ungodly howl, claws churning the earth beneath it. There was another crash and then a massive jet of air barrelled past the columns, scattering dust in its wake. A low whump, then another came. Francis gasped. 

No, surely, it couldn’t be that easy. The universe hated him too much for that. 

More debris flew past and clattered against the stone, and finally Francis dared to peer around the stone. At first, he could only stare in shock when he saw nothing but a large shadow, and slowly moved his gaze up until it rested disbelievingly on the giant red serpent that was currently flapping above the courtyard, icy crystals encrusting most of its long neck. Like a great bird of prey, it ascended further, Francis standing shellshocked and tracking its passage until it was nothing more than a speck in the sky. 

A few seconds, a minute, then another passed and Francis still stood, staring uncomprehendingly upwards until the truth began to dawn on him with all the power of the bright sun the shone on him. 

That was it then. He, Francis Bonnefoy, knight of the realm, had managed to drive off the dread dragon of Wrunele. 

A few seconds, a minute, then another passed and Francis finally started to move. The mighty hero staggered a few steps across the ruined courtyard, paused, and promptly broke into hysterical laughter. If anyone else, say perhaps, a disgruntled, slightly more human occupant of the castle who was frankly tired of the explosions, had seen the victorious knight then, they would have probably thought him quite mad; indeed, still sporting a gaudy sapphire necklace and a tilted circlet that had somehow managed to stay on his head despite the afternoon’s activities, singed and covered in soot and laughing to himself in the middle of a destroyed circle of stones, anyone would have thought Francis had finally gone off his rocker. 

The laugh petered out into a strained sort of chuckle. This was the single strangest day of Francis’ life and at the moment, he felt very frazzled, more than a bit high off his victory, and was quickly filling with a misplaced sense of bravado that was really fear trying to mould itself into a less harmful outlet. He ran a trembling hand through his matted locks. 

“This was odd, really really odd.” He singsonged, “Let’s not do that again oh you’re kidding-” 

His hand stopped abruptly continuing on a few paces past where his hair ended. Correction, carrying on a few paces past where his hair ended and continuing on until where his hair should have ended.

Francis shrieked, this time not caring about his steadily increasing tally in that regard. “Oh my poor hair!” He lamented, clutching at the singed strands in despair as he finally registered the acrid smell around him was one of burnt rock *and* burnt hair. 

What a sacrifice he had made, so much for escaping unscathed. 

He allowed himself a few moments of pity for his poor golden locks. What would the others say when he came back home looking like some sort of lopsided dog?! Oh he could practically hear the jibes Gilbert would come up with when he caught sight of the choppy bob, never one to pass up the chance for a good ribbing and to bring up the ever-hated moniker of Goldilocks whenever he had the chance-

Francis’ mind snagged on the nickname, usually a source of absolute contention anytime it was brought up at the tavern, or in the barracks, or in the training ground...anywhere. This time though, it was the first part that caught his attention and brought him back to the reality of the situation. 

Gold, mountains of it, sitting unguarded and ripe for the taking directly underneath him. 

For the second time that day, something ecstatic swelled in his chest and Francis made quick work of making his way across the rest of the courtyard, nerves jumping and emotions all over the place as they focused solely on the fact that he was about to be a very very rich man indeed. 

Francis stumbled through the archway that had miraculously survived the dragon’s wrath, noting with a dull sort of interest that it led him back into the first antechamber. And he whooped in absolute elation, throwing his fists triumphantly into the air and spinning into a demented sort of dance. He was the master now! 

From above, there was a mighty crash as a heavy oak door was wrenched open and slammed into the wall, betraying a hardly constrained fury that somehow prickled with malice and sent frissons of terror throughout Francis’ being as he was plunged into darkness. Heavy footsteps reverberated through the castle as it’s actual master finally made an appearance. 

Oh right. 

The sorcerer. 

Emotions deciding to switch at breakneck speed back to scared, Francis floundered in the sudden blackness; he dared not to cry out and instead tried to retrace his steps to the door he had just entered as the exhaustion and exasperation were quick to set in. If he wasn’t so worried about it attracting the attention of this new enemy, he would have stomped like a petulant child. Frankly he had had enough adventures and pathways and murderous beasts to last him a lifetime. At this point, he cared not for the riches that beckoned from the dragon’s lair, only for a quick retreat and a few days of drowning his sorrows (both literally and in the warmth and comfort of the bathhouses), preferably somewhere not infested with magic and hellbent on destroying him. 

Truly, was a little peace and maybe a sackful of gold or two as recompense too much to ask? 

A frigid breeze that was far too near the sensation he had felt while conversing with the mystery voice howled through the darkened antechamber and sent Francis’ hair and cloak whipping about. 

“What have you done?!” 

The voice from before echoed from the balcony, somehow almost deafening as it reverberated around the large room and settled in Francis’ skull. Whoever it was, sorcerer or no, there was no doubt that they were angry. No, scratch that, furious if their tone was any indication. Francis’ questing hand finally alighted on a stone and he pressed himself into the wall, wishing very much that he could blend in with the rock. 

However, Francis had just fought a dragon and won. 

Chased it away, his inner monologue would counsel him, it’ll probably come back in a few minutes and then you’ll really wish you were dead.

Francis chose to ignore that voice. 

Point being, if he survived still after besting the dragon, doing what countless others before him could not, then surely he could also stand against the might of the sorcerer above him. Not to mention he still had a bone to pick from the earlier intrusion into his thoughts, unwelcome as that was. 

Another part of his mind was strongly advising him against engaging a sorcerer head on, stories of all-powerful men blowing apart entire citadels with nothing more than sheer will, but the addictive mix of adrenaline and fear still coursing through his veins gave Francis the boost he needed to respond, an edge of daring sharpening his words. 

“Was it not you who told me to come here in the first place?” He challenged, thrusting his chin out. 

A beat, and then the other man spoke again, though this time his tone simmered with calm rage. Slow, deliberate. “What have you done with my dragon?” 

Francis pressed his lips together and used his hands as a guide as he inched further along the wall, grounding himself in the slow pace of his fingers across the rough stone. “It’s gone” 

“What.”

Now that had Francis smirking. Clearly he had struck a nerve, and reason had seemed to briefly abandon his potential foe as confusion wormed its way inside. 

“I got rid of it.” He boasted, picking up the pace when he felt the sudden corner that delineated the long hallway. He smiled briefly in triumph and hurried to his right, biting back an exclamation as he misjudged the angle and his right knee grazed the stone, though the damage did nothing to hinder his retreat. “Chased it right from its perch and frightened it into the skies.” 

He had barely gone three steps before the candelabras along the wall suddenly flared to life, and Francis yelped at the blazing wash of heat that erupted far too close to his ear. He recoiled and darted backwards, frantically patting in his head to make sure his hair had escaped unsinged. 

Locks safe and unburnt, Francis risked a glance at the balcony, the antechamber now brightly lit in rivalry to the outside sun. Both doors were flung open now, barely resting on the walls in ways that spoke of rapid collisions, but no sorcerer was to be seen glaring down at him. In fact, as he nearly spun around in an attempt to survey the chamber and hall as quickly as possible, he could see no one save himself in the room. 

“Hiding behind your spells again?” He muttered with a self-satisfied air, feeling leagues more confident at the prospect of an immaterial enemy. The knight chanced another quick look around before making to leave, his gaze lingering on the entryway to the treasury with a feeling of resignation as he turned away from the beckoning gold glow. 

And promptly shrieked as he was suddenly face-to-face with a very irritable looking sorcerer. 

Truth be told, Francis wasn’t quite sure what he expected the sorcerer to look like. A gnarled old man perhaps? Craggy face and bulbous nose, scraggly white bear draped over tattered robes and a couple of rodents peeking out for good measure? Then again, the voice that goaded him hadn’t sounded old; in fact, it carried the lilt of one his own age, still puffed up with youth. 

Whatever he had been anticipating, it certainly wasn’t the man who now stood before him, all scowls and sneers and my god those eyebrows were pulled into a frown that could smite a man on sight. Those eyes though, there was nothing natural about that shade of arsenic that shone out. Francis jerked his fists up in reflex, heading straight for the man’s ribs, but in a flash of emerald light his hands were thrust down by his sides. 

“You chased Gringolet away?” The sorcerer demanded, incredulity clouding his voice at the same time Francis yelled out, “What the hell is this?!” 

The man blinked at him and Francis registered that perhaps his words had been a bit stupid. 

“Gringolet?” He tried again, when the incredulous stare he was receiving suggested he would not be getting a response. Poppy had mentioned the name before, but Francis hadn’t the faintest idea to whom she was referring. 

“The dragon.” Came the deadpan response. 

Upon further inspection, Francis’ original fear of the sorcerer was quickly diminishing. The scowl was still present on the man’s face, threatening deadly violence, but the rest of him left much to be desired. The wizard was cloaked in black robes, though their colour also could have been due to the healthy covering of soot that dusted both robe and face, where dark smudges around his cheeks betrayed hurried (and failed) attempts at rubbing it away. His hair was no better, spiky blond locks sticking up in every direction. With his crossed arms and annoyed expression, he very much looked like a disgruntled child called in after too long spent romping about a blustery heath. 

The thought brought a snicker bubbling into Francis’ throat and he quickly coughed into his fist, pushing on despite himself, “It has a name?” 

“Of course it has a name!” The sorcerer ejected, hands flying out in exasperation, “He’s my pet.” 

The latter really did draw a laugh from Francis, who didn’t bother smothering it this time, “The beast of Wrunele is your pet?” He questioned through stuttered breaths, voice rising at the end as he fought the tide of mirth and sheer incredulousness. As if his day couldn’t get any more ridiculous. 

“I don’t have to explain myself to some second-rate-” The man paused and flicked his eyes from Francis’ feet to crown, lip curled in a way that made Francis’ skin crawl, this time with affront, “Stablehand.”

“Stablehand?!” Francis echoed, higher pitched than he wanted. He took another step forward, noting unhappily that they were the same height. “Excuse you, I am a knight of the realm!” 

“Glorified stablehand then.” The sorcerer waved his hand and Francis skidded backwards a few paces. 

“How dare-.” A green light sparked menacingly near Francis’ hand and he quickly drew it to his chest. The acid from before coaxed another sharp retort to his lips. “With the way you’re acting I wouldn’t even lump you in with the drunken vagabonds that roam in the forest! At least they have the decency to acknowledge someone’s hard-earned rank!” He scoffed, indignant. “Who even keeps a fucking dragon as a pet?”

The sorcerer’s eyes bulged and he drew himself to full height, inhaling noisily. “You are not in a position to be speaking to me like that.” 

“If you can speak to me like that then I don’t see why I can’t do the same.” 

“You pompous piece of-” 

Francis never got to hear the end of that sentence, for the green static that had been crackling steadily at the corners of his vision suddenly exploded in a maelstrom of colour directed straight at his being. He only got out a faint exclamation of surprise as it collided with his chest with a weight that knocked the air from his lungs and his feet from the floor. 

How uncouth. He thought petulantly, hoping that his disdain for suddenly having every hair stand on end was reflected in his expression. 

Then his head hit the floor and the candles sputtered out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta, we die like men. Also can you tell I wrote this on three separate occasions? 
> 
> I should probably mention Francis isn’t dead, merely taking a short static-induced nap. If you’d like a reference for what the treasure hoard looked like, I’m not ashamed to say I wholeheartedly drew inspiration from Tolkein and the treasury of Erebor for this one. 
> 
> Also, a recommendation for a seriously A+ and surprisingly lighthearted fic that has more than enough danger and angsty bits to round everything out to perfection - [Slow Progress](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24075331/chapters/57941995) by [Snowywolff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowyWolff/pseuds/SnowyWolff) is the DND off-the-rails campaign fic that I had always dreamed of. Give it a read! 
> 
> Summary: Francis is the leader of a rather dysfunctional adventure party. Amid dungeon exploring, mission clearing and overall questing, he is desperately trying to keep the peace now that his former teenage sweetheart has joined his ragtag group of runaway strays.
> 
> Pairings: England/France, South Italy/Prussia  
> Rating: Mature

**Author's Note:**

> Get it, meritorious - mayor torius? Toro = bull in spanish?...I’ll see myself out. Also I very much enjoy the trio giving off major dumbass energy, especially after a few drinks. It’s a personal headcanon I quite enjoy, and I fully intend to integrate it whenever I can. That being said, this fic is going to be largely humorous, because I want something funny and fantasy-based that doesn’t kill off your favourite characters or force them to surmount some terrible evil that leaves them permanently scarred (looking at you GoT). 
> 
> Lucienne is just I name I picked at random - I briefly toyed with the idea of having it be Elizabeta whacking Gilbert upside the head...but it didn’t really make sense with the rest of the narrative so..random character it is I guess. Also fun game: count how many times I said mug in this chapter alone :/ 
> 
> A historical tidbit - squires were usually knighted at the age of 21 but many could be knighted as early as 16. Edward the Black prince was actually knighted at 16, and there seemed to be a consensus amongst some classical scholars that those who couldn’t obtain knighthood before puberty were not fit to be knights...make of that what you will. Each hopeful had to squire for an established knight, though their journey began much earlier; normally young boys from relatively well-to-do households would leave at the age of 7 to act as a Page to their lord until the age of 14, at which point they would transition to the role of squire if they had shown potential. Give it another 7 years, and if you hadn’t died of plague or war or starvation and hadn’t been kicked out of the ranks, congratulations, you’re a knight now! 
> 
> Yes, I went mild history nerd in determining who each of the trio served under: Gilbert gets Old Fritz, Francis gets Clovis after the first recognized King of the Franks, and Ferdinand for Antonio after Ferdinand V, the first king of a united Castile/Aragon. This is related in no way to actual historical events though, and these three are just regular knights in this story.


End file.
